The Speech
by InsideOutlaw
Summary: This is a continuation of Means To An End. Heyes and the Kid are motivational speakers at the governor's direction. What could go wrong?


The words washed over him like a soft rain, tickling his consciousness but sliding off with little effect. Instead, his thoughts were on the men standing in the stifling room. Packed tightly, the collective odor of male bodies squeezed into the prison meeting hall added to the already dense atmosphere. Hannibal Heyes let his eyes rove over the crowd looking for familiar faces. He saw one or two men who jogged his memory. Outlaws whose paths he'd crossed in his long career, but no one he knew well.

It was always terrible when he recognized a former friend. Like a betrayal that he should have his amnesty while they were incarcerated. Fortunately, he'd never encountered any of his own gang members. It absurdly pleased him that the Devil's Hole gang was still a thorn in the governor's side, although a lesser one than when he ran things.

"You can do it. We earned our freedom by mendin' our ways…" Kid Curry's voice droned on listlessly as he read from the notes atop the lectern. Heyes tuned him out again. They both knew this speech by heart. Written for them by the governor's press secretary, he and the Kid had already given it here and at countless prisons throughout the greater West. It was full of promises that would never be kept; designed to seduce compliance from the men before him. He wondered how many of those men would be inspired to try for an amnesty. How many would fail and end up back where they started, or worse, at the end of a noose? If they only knew what amnesty really meant, they'd head for the doors. It was an illusion of freedom reined in by the obligation to perform like a trained bear in the governor's private circus; fenced off from a fulfilling life by the condemnation of the Wyoming public. Heyes was heartily tired of being used and shunned, his and his partner's lives suspended.

He shifted his attention to Warden Burke seated on the only chair in the room at the edge of the stage and flanked by two well-known reporters from the Wyoming Tribune. Heyes was curious why they were here. The press had never attended one of their past presentations. The governor must've sent them. As Heyes was staring, another person entered the room. The tall, well-groomed man was a stranger to him and from all appearances a stranger to Burke as well, yet the cut of his clothes and his confident bearing signaled he was a man of some importance. Heyes wondered briefly who he was. Maybe he's the reason why the reporters had come.

The warden also studied the new arrival and then turned to one of the reporters. After a hastily whispered conversation, Burke returned his attention to Curry. The smug man relished his position and flaunted it; his chair an ersatz throne before which all others must stand while he sat comfortably. His hands were gripped across his bulging waistline and he nodded his head periodically although his glazed eyes belied his attentiveness.

He had agreed to this little spectacle as a sop to the governor's vanity. Burke knew that Congress would soon be voting on whether to construct a new state prison in Rawlings and it was his intention to apply for the prison superintendent position. But he would need the governor's endorsement to get it, so he had responded positively to the request for these two ruffians to, once again, be allowed access to his inmates. What else could he do? His job as warden had taken him as far as he could go in the Wyoming Territorial Prison. He had his eye on the new, lucrative post that would be created in Rawlings.

Burke's gloating eyes drifted from the droning speaker to the dark-haired man standing slightly behind Curry. He mentally willed Heyes to look at him to no avail. He'd give anything to humiliate the man before his peers and it irked him to no end that Hannibal Heyes had escaped his reach. He should be wearing prison stripes, not a three-piece suit.

Heyes felt the weight of the warden's gaze and ignored it. He understood all too well the small games small men played to establish their dominance. Hadn't he made a career out of manipulation?

The newspapermen were bored. Heyes couldn't blame them, he was bored. Tomorrow's paper would have a couple of short, dull paragraphs about the 'inspirational' speech given by two lawless men redeemed by the governor's grace. More fodder for the politician's empty campaign for prison reform. It was the new popular cause. The futility of it all irritated Heyes and fanned his resentments. It also allowed an idea to form and begin to percolate through his mind.

"Remember, work hard, do your jobs well, and live a clean life," the Kid cleared his throat, nearly choking on his next words, "and, you too, might end up free men like we did." He hated uttering that lie. The governor had made it plain to both of them that he had no intention of offering amnesties to jailed men. The purpose of these talks was to show his constituents that he was a progressive thinker and to hold his tamed ex-outlaws up as shining examples of his efforts.

Curry crumpled up his notes and jammed them into his pocket. A smattering of applause floated to him, but he didn't hear it. He was too busy reading the faces in the room. Disbelief and flat-out skepticism was what he saw, what he always saw. He was wasting his time and theirs. These men weren't stupid; they'd heard it before. This was the third time he and Heyes had been invited to speak at the Wyoming Territorial Prison and give the same tired speech. He heartily hoped he wouldn't have to face them again. These men all knew how long it had taken Heyes and Curry to get their amnesties, that they'd still been wanted while trying for them, and it had nearly cost them their lives several times. Outlaws didn't have a long life expectancy. Six years was an eternity to them.

Stepping back from the podium, he looked at his partner who had withdrawn his own notes from his best suit. Heyes didn't look at the Kid as he neared the podium. His gaze was pinned on the imprisoned men in the room and he looked at them with an intensity that both surprised and concerned Curry. What was going through that damned convoluted brain?

A wad of paper slipped from the dark-haired man's hand and dropped to the floor by his feet. Gripping the dais, Heyes leaned forward and peered down at the men gazing up at him. His reputation commanded their attention. Projecting his voice, he boomed, "Do you want the truth?" A stunned silence greeted his question. This wasn't the speech they were expecting. Puzzled eyes riveted onto the famed outlaw gang leader. Murmurs erupted throughout the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the warden nervously gesture to one of the guards. Good, he was pleased to rattle the pompous fool. The reporters were watching him carefully, alert to the departure from the script, their pencils poised above paper. Sensing a change, the tall, elegant man watched him closely as Heyes waited for the murmuring to die away.

"The truth is the governor's amnesty was his way of taking care of a big problem. Us. The law couldn't catch us; no one could. We were the best of the best." Cheering broke out and several fists were thrusted into the air. "It was the only way he had of bringing us to heel and it worked. Now he wants it to work on you."

Heyes glanced at the Kid. He could see the confusion on his best friend's face. Curry rolled his eyes in return, but offered up a tiny nod of encouragement. The Kid, too, was sick to death of being the governor's puppet and he'd back his partner's play, whatever it might be. Smiling wolfishly, knowing he had his partner's trust and tacit support to continue, Heyes drew a deep breath.

"We aren't free men any more than you are. Our leashes are longer and we're allowed the illusion of freedom, but we are at the law's beck and call. Here's the reality of amnesty. We are social outcasts. Adrift from our gang, exposed, with no real means of support, we are justifiably vilified by the average citizen." He paused and listened to the low growl racing through the crowd. Another quick glance told him the warden wasn't going to interrupt his tirade. He'd counted on that. The man was enjoying seeing him hang himself with his own rope; probably already had his cell picked out.

"We have it better than you; we know that. We aren't cooped up four to a cell with no heat, eating bad food, and only a filthy bucket to relieve ourselves. But we're not free. Not by a long shot. If we were free, we wouldn't be standing here before you trying to convince you of the error of your ways; we'd be off living somewhere warm, doing work not too hard on our backs." A ripple of tense laughter rose to his ears.

"Why am I telling you this? You already know we're frauds. Nothing has changed for any of you since the last time we were here, has it? Let's see a show of hands. How many of you have applied for the governor's amnesty program?" Dozens of hands were held up. "And how many of you heard back from the Governor's Office?" All raised arms disappeared. "Well, you aren't going to hear from him. You aren't getting amnesty because he's already got what he wants-your best behavior and your silence. And it didn't cost him one red cent. Words are cheap. Face it, you're locked up and he's thrown away the key."

Anger crept into the large room, and the guards responded by cocking their weapons which only succeeded in touching off another round of murmuring. The inmates were beginning to look around at each other unsure of how to react to the inflammatory words. The warden stood and sidled towards the exit as Heyes continued, taking command of the crowd.

"Why am I telling you this? Because you can make your lives better; not by chasing a pipe dream, but by demanding that you are treated fairly and given adequate living conditions. It's time the public knows what goes on in here and I'm going to help you tell them." Heyes face broke out in a broad smile and he turned towards the reporters. "Gentlemen of the press, here's an opportunity for a real story. I challenge you to reveal the truth to your readers." The two newspapermen nodded enthusiastically at Heyes while the tail end of the warden disappeared out the door followed by a small cadre of guards. Burke could hear Heyes' next words following him down the hallway to his secured office. "I see our friend, the warden, has scurried off to safety." Burke's face reddened as a roomful of laughter reached him. He'd see Heyes hanged for this. The man was fomenting rebellion. He screamed for his secretary and his telegrapher.

"You there!" Heyes pointed at a gaunt inmate with a long, graying beard. "Yes, you. Come on up here and tell us your story."

The Kid walked forward and reached out a hand to pull the older man up onto the stage. "What's your name, partner?"

"Elwood. Elwood Burnbuckle."

"And what's your crime, Elwood?" asked Curry gently.

The man turned a ruddy hue and hemmed and hawed for a moment. "I…er…um…I stole the sheriff's long johns."

Wild clapping and laughter ensued and, as it died away, Heyes spoke again. "Long johns? You were sent here over underwear?"

"Well, yessir, they was the sheriff's!"

"How long have you been here, Elwood?" asked Heyes.

"Four years, eleven months, and twelve and half days."

"Must've been some mighty fine long johns," said the Kid with a grin.

"Nossir. But the sheriff was the judge's nephew and I guess I roughed him up a bit when he tried to take 'em back. Sure wish I still had 'em. They was full o'holes but it's damned cold in here come winter."

"Don't they give you blankets?" questioned Heyes.

"Only the one when I first got here, but it's holey now, too."

"One blanket? How cold does it get in here?

"Don't rightly know. Lots of mornings I wake up with frost on me and sometimes it's so cold my gruel freezes on the spoon before it gits to my piehole." Knowing snickers abounded at this comment.

"How's the food in here?" asked Curry. He knew the answer; he'd heard stories most of his adult life.

"It's gruel. How do you think it is?" Elwood smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight. "Sundays we get stew if'n we attend services."

"What if you're sick or you can't go?" prompted Heyes.

"Then it's more gruel."

Heyes thanked Elwood and invited another man up to join him. "Thank you for coming up and speaking with me. What's your name?"

"Bull."

"Bull what?"

"Just Bull."

"Bull, the governor says he's instituted a work system to help rehabilitate prisoners. Can you tell me what your job is here at the prison?"

The big, heavily-muscled man grinned at Heyes. Most of his teeth were broken or missing. "I move rocks."

"Are you building something?"

"No. I just move them from one side of the yard to another. Back and forth; all day, every day."

"Isn't that kind of pointless?"

Bull shrugged, "Guess so. Don't think much about it, but there ain't much time to think. If I slow down, the guards whip on me. Last time, one of 'em busted out my teeth with his gunstock."

Even Heyes was shocked and he allowed it to show. "They whip and beat you for moving the rocks too slowly?"

"Yep, or sometimes just 'cause they feel like it." Bull pulled his striped shirt over his head and turned his back to the outlaw leader. "See?"

Heyes saw dozens of scars and half-healed welts crisscrossing the man's spine. Waving to the reporters, he brought them over to witness first-hand the state of Bull's body. They scribbled furiously. As they wrote, the tall distinguished man drifted over and peered at the scars.

Disgusted, the man turned to the crowd and shouted angrily, "Who else has been mistreated in this fashion?" Hands shot up, waving furiously.

Not wanting to allow his momentum to be thwarted, Heyes confronted the man. "Excuse me, sir, who are you and why are you here?"

"I am Chester A. Thornton, head of the President's exploratory committee on prison reform, Mr. Heyes, and, quite frankly, I am shocked at what I am hearing today."

Excited gasps rose from the journalists. They couldn't believe their good fortune. This story was going to be front page!

Delighted as well, Heyes couldn't prevent a huge, dimpled smile from springing to his face. "Mr. Thornton, I think I can safely say you might just be the answer to these men's prayers."

Thornton faced his audience. "I can promise you, you will be heard, each and every one of you." Wild cheering broke out and the men surged towards the stage trying to shout out their individual stories, anxious to be heard.

OOOOOOOOOO

Kid Curry climbed the pine steps leading up to the small cabin he shared with his best friend. In his right hand, he held a stack of letters and a folded newspaper. Heyes was seated in a rocker enjoying the shade offered by the deeply overhanging roof. It was hot in Arizona, but it was a good kind of hot at this altitude. His gaze shifted to the fenced pasture next to the home. A few head of horses grazed peacefully in the lush grass, several of them noticeably pregnant.

"Mail's here."

"Let me see the paper," said Heyes. Curry handed it to him and sat down in the empty rocker on the far side of his partner. Heyes unfolded the newspaper. "Hey Kid, says here the brand-spanking new State of Wyoming's gonna be taking over the Territorial Prison later this year."

"I wonder what ever happened to our old friend, Warden Burke."

Heyes chuckled, "Last I heard he was being brought up on charges of misappropriating funds; seems he was lining his own pockets with the inmates' lunch money."

Curry shuffled through the envelopes on his lap before withdrawing one and holding it up to the light of the mid-day sun. "Check's here." He tossed it onto Heyes lap. "How long you think we'll get paid for consultin', Heyes?"

"We still got two more years before the next election, Kid. My bet is we can rest easy 'til then."

"I hope so. With a little luck, we might even pay this place off 'fore then. That last crop of yearlings fetched a nice price."

Heyes nodded his agreement. "The President's spent a lot of time and money on his committee. He ain't giving it up yet."

"Who'd of thought we'd end up working for the government?"

"The governor sure didn't. You should've seen his face when he heard we were being called to Washington."

"Wasn't a surprise to me." Curry sat back, put both hands behind his head, and his booted feet on the porch railing.

"It wasn't?" Heyes smiled at his old friend. "How come?"

"Everyone knows that's where the real crooks are, Heyes."

 **Notes (from Wikipedia):**

 **The Wyoming Territorial prison was built in 1872 and began accepting prisoners in early 1873. The facility had problems from the outset with a fire in 1873 and recurrent jailbreaks. Of the 44 prisoners accepted in the first two years of operation, 11 escaped. By 1877, the prison was overcrowded. As the prison filled, its reputation worsened and it became less used, being considered more appropriate for those with light sentences. During the 1880's, the prison was under capacity with as few as three prisoners at one time. However in 1889, a second cellblock was constructed expanding capacity to 150 and providing a central kitchen, dining hall, guards' rooms and steam heat. There were at least five cells for female inmates, and several solitary confinement cells. In 1890, Wyoming became a state and the facility was transferred to the new state which already had planned a new facility in Rawlins. Butch Cassidy was incarcerated here in 1894-1896. Prisoners were transferred to Rawlins in 1901. The prison was closed in 1903 and given to the University of Wyoming.**


End file.
